


Hurts and Words

by SmellyKelo



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Indian Wells 2019, Injury, M/M, mention of flashback, past quarrel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 22:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmellyKelo/pseuds/SmellyKelo
Summary: Roger visits Rafa after he pulls out of the Indian Wells semifinal against Roger due to injury.





	Hurts and Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clairekang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairekang/gifts).



> This is for clairekang who wrote me one of the most beautiful comments I ever received (on the last chapter of The Days I posted).
> 
> I am sorry I am posting something about Indian Wells when the Miami Open is almost at an end. But I have had a lot of work (bad excuse). Also, I am bad at naming stories.
> 
> The usual disclaimer: The conversations and incidents described in this story are purely of my imagination.

Rafa stares at the floor. At nothing in particular. He cannot look at his knee – that offending part of his body that lets him down every day of his life. Well, it is not anyone’s fault; it is not even a _fault_ , but - really, his brain is not functioning. He just cannot think any more!

Rafa glances covertly at Titín who is standing in front of him, head down, hands on his hips, looking utterly dejected, and a bit guilty, it seems to him. Rafa raises his head a little and their gazes meet. The man fidgets a bit, scratches his head, and utters almost inaudibly, “I am sorry.”

“Why do _you_ apologise?” It comes out a lot harsher than Rafa had intended, and Titín flinches. Rafa tries to amend quickly, and says what he had originally wanted to say, kindly, “It is not your fault, brother. You did your best. You always do your best to help me.”

“My best is not _the_ best,” he chokes out.

“It is _the_ best,” Rafa says firmly. “And now you deserve some rest. Go and lie down a bit – I think you said you have a headache?”

“It is nothing…I think the weather -”

“Is very bad,” Rafa interrupts. “So you should get some sleep.”

Titín leaves without another word. Now there is only him and Carlos in the room; Carlos sitting on a chair, facing Rafa who is sitting at the edge of the bed. Rafa closes his eyes. He was so close this time; he could feel it. He was almost there! And since the beginning of the tournament he had this feeling that he is going to have it this time. There was the occasional sudden spike in his knee, but it is almost always there anyway – the knee is not going anywhere. He even took it easier during the early rounds; tried to give his knee a bit more rest, so that it would be available to its full ability when required. Yet here he is, immobilised! So close to the end, too! Like every damn time this year! At the Australian Open, he had wanted the trophy with every atom of his body and soul. And he could not have it either, at the very end. The knee was there too – it was not going anywhere, really – but he never wanted to make it an excuse, so…he steadfastly denied its existence to everyone, including himself. The damned knee was there at Acapulco also - that beautiful place that Rafa loved so much; it was there to sour that beauty. He still did not want to acknowledge its existence, so he denied it and came to Indian Wells, another beautiful place. It has been here too, but he continued to deny it until he could deny it no longer. That day is today. He had wanted the trophy, and here he is, unable to play the semifinal even! The unfairness of it all!

“Oh, fuck me!” The words are out of his mouth before he realises he had exclaimed out loud, and in English. Shit! Carlos is still here. Not that he never swears in front of Carlos, and how could you speak without swearing, really, but…Is Carlos smirking?

“What?” Rafa grunts.

“Do you really want me to -?” He covers his mouth to hide the smile.

Rafa glares at him. “Is this the time to make such bad jokes?”

Carlos shrugs. “I only want you to smile, you know. I want you to be happy.”

Rafa closes his eyes and balls his hands into fists. “You know, there are times when I have this wild desire to kill someone. It is very bad, I know, to think of killing someone, but at times like this I feel my bad desire is justified.”

Rafa opens his eyes. Carlos flees. Rafa shuts the door, turns off the light, and lies down on the bed and covers his eyes with an arm. He should not have taken it out on Carlos, he knows, but – he is so angry! The beginning of this year has been a series of disappointments. The Australian Open final still rankles. It cuts through the heart like a knife. It is a terrible cliché, he knows, but what can he do when the pain is still so raw, still so close to the surface? This year he had felt like nothing could stop him, not even his own body; that this time was his time. And then it was not. Suddenly an English proverb comes to his mind – a proverb he had learnt ages ago. _There is many a slip between the cup and the lip_. Andy Murray had taught him that. Another good man immobilised by injury, and not very hopeful of recovery. That damned thing – injury! Rafa hates the word in every language he knows.

And then there is Roger. Roger – that insufferable – _what? Really, what to call him, an insufferable what?_ Rafa is at a loss for words. Before the start of the tournament he called Rafa and wanted to meet him. Rafa invited him over. They were to discuss official matter – the ATP administration. Okay, to be fair, they _did_ discuss that. But -! Roger had promised not to bring up _that_ thing between themselves. He had promised not to talk about themselves, about ‘love’. And then he did! After all these years, after treating Rafa like he did not mean what he said, after thinking Rafa had no real feelings for him, one fine morning he suddenly had an enlightenment and realised that he was wrong! Does he think saying ‘sorry’ changes anything? Apologies are words only!

Unbidden, the tears come. He makes no effort to stop them. He puts up a brave face everywhere. That does not mean he cannot cry sometimes. He wants to be positive, always. He wants everybody to be positive all the time. That does not mean there are no moments when he loses hope. Whoever is suffering, he wants them to be strong, he wants them to believe that sometimes willpower can compensate physical strength, that sometimes the will to cross a barrier itself crushes that barrier. That does not mean he is not weak sometimes, and loses all will.

*****************

The moment Roger reads the text, he is speechless. A few black markings on a white background, and he is struck dumb. It is a cliché. It is one of the biggest clichés in all the languages he knows. Probably every language in the world has a counterpart of this cliché. But what can he do when his mind refuses to believe that what he has been dreading all these hours has actually happened?

For he _has_ been dreading this since yesterday, since that quarterfinal match he watched last evening. He had not gone to bed after his own match and press duties were over, for he wanted to catch every moment of Rafa’s match against Karen…He was certain Rafa and he were going to meet again after two years – this time in the semifinal. And Rafa did win – but at what cost! Halfway through the match his knee started causing trouble, and Rafa – that incredible man – played the second set literally on one leg! Roger wipes his eyes again as he remembers how Rafa ran all the way from the baseline to the net, covered every inch of the court, chose shots wisely as he struggled against the limitations imposed by his own body. How he was pained to see Rafa in pain, how every moment he wanted Rafa to halt the match and retire – surely it was impossible to win with one leg against a man ten years your junior? But no – _his_ Rafa was stubborn, he never admitted defeat until the last moment…and he won. Still, Roger was not certain if Rafa would play the semifinal against him, if he would be well enough, but he had a tiny bit of hope – Rafa played the Shanghai final against him with one leg too; _he is stubborn, he never admits defeat_ …Of course Roger does not know what really happened after the Indian Wells broadcast was over for the day, how Rafa was and what he was thinking after he had shut the doors of his rented house and the cameras could follow him no longer, because Rafa does not talk to him as much as he used to before _all that_ …Well, that is an understatement; actually Rafa has closed the doors to his mind after Roger messed up everything. This time, Roger does not try to wipe the tears spilling from his eyes.

 

Roger thinks for almost a minute before pressing the bell. Hopefully no one saw him standing like a fool in front of the door. He had had to scold and mock himself for over an hour before he could work up the courage to go and visit his friend in person. And even after pressing the bell he wishes he could take it back and return home and forget all about it, because how can he possibly explain why he is here when somebody from Rafa’s family opens the door! Thankfully, it is Rafa who opens the door. Rafa – in a t-shirt and track pants and sandals on his feet – standing in the shadows so that you could not see the emotions in his face. In all probability there would be nothing to see – his face would be expressionless, like it is nowadays, like a closed book. And now Roger knows how much he is responsible for that.

“What are you doing here?” Rafa hisses.

“I am sorry Rafa, I should not have – but I had to see you…” Now that Roger is here, he cannot form a coherent sentence. He does not even remember the reason he had told himself to convince his mind to go see Rafa in the first place.

“You see me. Now what?” Rafa is still speaking in angry whispers.

“I am sorry Rafa, please don’t be unkind – I would go if you want me to…” Roger is aware that their words are seeming like dialogues from a soppy romance novel, but he does not know what else he can say. He hangs his head. He half expects the door would be shut and Rafa vanished behind it when he raises his head, but – when he does raise his head Rafa is still there, the door shut behind him.

Rafa takes two steps forwards to stand in front of Roger, so close that despite the darkness of the evening Roger can clearly see the dark eyes in the expressionless face piercing his soul. “Come to the garden and say what you want to say,” Rafa says in an undertone, and turns around abruptly and starts walking. Roger follows quickly. He does not ask for any explanation for this behaviour, but Rafa continues, “Cannot invite you into the house, sorry. What you think my people would think if you come in like this, when you have reached the final because you did not have to play against me? Certainly they won’t say anything, but – don’t you ever consider how people feel?” Rafa gives him an angry glare.

Roger suddenly realises Rafa is speaking very correct English, which means he is very serious. “I am sorry Rafa,” Roger repeats, sounding like a cracked record, not knowing what he is apologising for. And it comes to his mind that he had really wanted to play the semifinal against Rafa, despite Rafa’s injury and pain, and he becomes remorseful. He never wants Rafa to be in pain! He never wants to hurt him or inconvenience him, but he has done both. “I should not have come, I know, but -”

Rafa interrupts. “But you are here. So forget it. Apologies are words.” He sits down on a small stone seat in the middle of some ornamental bushes. He does not invite Roger to sit beside him, but there are no other seats around, so Roger sits down beside him, keeping a careful distance between them. It hurts that Rafa is so unkind, but Roger cannot blame the man; it is a survival strategy after all. His body betrayed him, Roger disappointed him – it must be too much for even Rafa to handle!

Roger tries to say something, but whatever he had thought in the past hour seems foolish now. He had so much to say, and now that he is in front of Rafa he is tongue-tied. Another cliché. _You are an old man Roger, thinking nothing but clichés_. And Rafa is waiting for him to speak.

“I am so sorry for what has happened, Rafa. I really am.” Roger does not know what he is referring to, and if Rafa asks him that, he would not know what to answer.

But Rafa does not ask him that. He only says stiffly, “Is not your fault.”

“Not _fault_.” It sounds lame in Roger’s ears, the stress on the word ‘fault’. Rafa is not looking at him. He is staring into the darkness. Tears threaten to spill from Roger’s eyes. _Look at me, please! Look at me, or how would I be able speak!_ And it suddenly seems that this is not real. The night is not real, the garden, the stone seat, the bushes are not real, Rafa sitting beside him is not real, this is not happening. He _has_ to hold Rafa to make sure, though, but Rafa would mind, would probably never want to see him again alone. _Why oh why did it ever become like this!_

Roger can bear it no longer. He places a hand lightly on Rafa’s knee. Rafa looks at the hand, but does not push it away, or get up and walk away. He continues to sit as before, still and silent. Roger takes it as a good sign. He can speak now.

“Why are you so stubborn, Rafa? You even went to the grounds today to practise, and I thought you were going to play, after all. And I wondered why…You don’t need to prove anything…”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, Roger knows he has said the wrong thing. Rafa turns his head, a shocked expression on his face. “Seem like that to you?” He shrugs. “Not surprised. You say anything.”

“I did not mean what you are thinking, Rafa!” Roger tries to amend the situation desperately. “I only wanted to say it hurt me like hell to see you yesterday, playing an entire set on one leg. It hurts like hell to see you like this.”

Rafa purses his lips. “You know how hell hurts, Roger?”

“It is a figure of speech!” Roger exclaims, but he knows it is almost impossible to explain to Rafa certain points of the ‘stupid English language’. “Your knee was hurting you so much, everybody with eyes could see. Why didn’t you stop the match and retire? You were in so much pain…”

Rafa looks into Roger’s eyes, and when he speaks his voice is hard. “I could not just retire, Roger. I have retired too many times – before a match, during a match. Did not want it to be like that this time. You know me, Roger. I play every ball like my life depends on it, because it may be last ball that I play in my life. I must return every shot that life serves me. You would never understand this urgency, Roger. You can end your career when you wish to. My career might be finished at any moment – may be when I least want to. It may not be my choice. That has been taken from me. You will never understand me, Roger.”

Roger knows that. Despite being great friends for years, he is always aware of this gulf between them, of never understanding the person beside whom he is sitting. He removes the hand from Rafa’s knee. “What you say is true,” he says. “I would never have your determination, your single-mindedness to return to the game every time you are injured, and you have had more injuries than everyone else I know combined. After so many times I would have given up, I know.”

Rafa reaches out and takes Roger’s hand in his own, and leans against him. The expression on his face has softened, and when he speaks his voice is softer, too. “But you always try to understand me, Roger. Is why I love you.”

He says it just like that. He, who a few days ago had said in no uncertain terms that he never wants to hear that word from Roger again. Roger’s heart swells. _They have come so far together, surely they can go further still! How could he think Rafa would ever drive him away!_ He puts an arm around Rafa and pulls him closer, closing the distance between them. Rafa does not protest. “I love you too, my dear,” Roger whispers in his ear. “And it hurts me to see you in pain. I want you to laugh – I want you to be happy. I want you to have everything you wish.”

Rafa looks into his eyes. “I know.” He leans forward and kisses Roger. It is a chaste kiss, and lasts for only seconds before Rafa pulls back and leans his head against Roger’s shoulder. Roger cannot say a word. With Rafa’s heartbeat so close to his throat, he can die like this.

For a little while they remain seated on the stone seat, embracing each other in silence before Rafa sits up straight. He has been crying, Roger notices with shock. “Is nothing,” Rafa smiles at him and wipes his eyes. “Best of luck for tomorrow! Although I will support Dominic.”

“What!” Roger splutters. “How can you do this Rafa, you are supposed to be my friend!”

Rafa laughs. “I want you to play well, Roger. But he is a good player – a very good player. He deserves a Masters. And it will be most beautiful if he has his first Masters against you. He has to defeat the best in the world…”

Roger wishes to say he has a very different idea about who the best in the world is, but he says nothing. Rafa has reconciled with him; Rafa has said he loves him, what more does he want! He would give Rafa anything! “When will I see you again?” He asks.

“Cannot play Miami, you see,” Rafa says with a rueful smile. “May be Monte Carlo. But you are not playing there, so…”

“Still, see you on clay!” Roger exclaims.

“Yes, and I get to beat you.” Rafa smiles his beautiful smile.

“I will make it very difficult, I warn you.” Roger raises a finger.

“Deal.”

They embrace again.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I write something about their quarrel that is mentioned here? What do you say?


End file.
